by Sandra Hill
Roger glanced at the TV set. “I grew up in Ohio Amish country, and I ain’t never seen an Amish woman with tits like that,” he commented, just to be amiable. Or to avoid Clarence’s fist, which often shot out at random for the least offense.
Roger went back to scowling at the computer in front of him, and he might have made a growling noise.
“So, what poker you got up your ass this time, man?” Clarence asked in his usual insulting manner.
Roger gritted his teeth at Clarence’s tone and would have liked to tell him, Bite me! But Clarence might do that, literally. Instead, Roger told him, “My wife’s cousin sold my home while I was in prison, and I just found out from the real estate transfers online that the bitch pocketed a cool two hundred and fifty thou.”
“Whoa! And they call us robbers!” Clarence had the irritating habit of chewing on the ice in his glass after drinking his soda, which he was doing now.
Crunch, crunch, crunch!
Roger felt like clubbing him over the head with the remote Clarence held on to like it was his personal possession. Just because he was bigger than the rest of them, and mean as a junkyard dog, and sported two gold incisors that he claimed to have yanked out of the mouth of a bookie who tried to steal from him, didn’t mean he had the right to hog the TV. And make them all watch these crackpot reality TV shows.
Crunch, crunch, crunch!
Holy hell! I feel like he’s scratching my eyeballs with sandpaper.
Besides that, Clarence had a nerve putting Roger in the same class as Clarence and robbers. Roger had never robbed anyone. All he’d done was smack his wife around a little when she got out of hand. And his kids . . . well, kids needed a good smack once in a while to grow up right.
“I sunk a lot of money into that house, even if it was in my wife’s name. Rewired the whole two stories. Installed a patio, stone by fucking stone. Painted till I ’bout died from the fumes. Put in a second bathroom. That house wasn’t worth shit when we moved in, and now Miranda Fucking Hart gets to reap the benefits.”
“You oughta try to get some of that cash back. It ain’t right.”
Crunch, crunch, crunch!
How much damn ice can one glass hold? Roger flexed the tension out of his fingers, barely restraining himself from putting his fingers around Clarence’s neck, and squeezing, squeezing, squeezing. “The courts are on her side. She’s a psychiatrist or psychologist or something. Has lawyers in her pocket. Probably in her panties, too.”
“I didn’t mean to get your money back through the courts, dude.”
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
I’m going to tear that ice maker out of the fridge first chance I get. “Oh. I intend to. Believe you me. She’ll pay. And not just for stealing the house. She took my kids, too. Moved them to Vegas.”
“Whaaat? Are you shittin’ me, man? Your kids? I didn’t know you had kids.” Roger had Clarence’s full attention now.
“Yep. Five of them. Three boys and two girls,” Roger said with pride. He felt kind of manly when he talked about having five kids, like his swimmers were especially potent.
“Well, that settles it. You and me gotta go to Vegas. We’ll show that ballbuster what’s what.”
“Uh,” Roger said dumbly. Yeah, he planned to go to Vegas. And he planned to get his kids back, along with the money for his house. Plus, Miranda was gonna pay big-time for what she’d done to him, including her testimony at his parole hearing last year, claiming he was a psycho with rage issues. He was going to kill her, but he was going to be careful how he went about it so he didn’t get blamed. What he didn’t need was a six foot two, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound black guy with an attitude along for the ride.
But Clarence was already on a roll. “In fact, I got a buddy who lives on the Strip. In an apartment over a pizza shop. We can stay with him while we case the situation.”
Oh hell! How am I going to tell Clarence I want to go on my own? “Listen, I appreciate the offer, but I really think that—”
Clarence waved a hand airily, “You don’t hafta thank me, Rog.” Roger hated when people called him Rog. “What are best friends for, huh?”
This was the first Roger had heard that they were best friends.
Roger stood, bracing himself to tell Clarence that he didn’t need his help, but Clarence was already on his cell phone, telling, not asking, the dumb schmuck in Sin City that he would be there soon with his good buddy, meaning Roger, and to make sure he stocked up on beer and a hooker or two.
Then he turned to Roger and flashed a gold-toothed smile. “Vegas, here we come!”
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
You gotta love a resourceful man . . .
Miranda awakened from a deep sleep when her alarm went off at six a.m. She sat up and stretched, totally refreshed. For the first time in ages, she’d slept for a full eight hours.
All thanks to her personal Viking. He’d told the kids at nine o’clock that it was time to go upstairs. By ten, they were all in their respective beds. And they didn’t even protest, as they usually did. Well, they did start to complain, but he gave them such a quelling scowl that they immediately obeyed. It must be some kind of Norse magic.
Miranda concluded that the children reacted differently to Mordr because he was a man, an authority figure to them, while she was just softhearted Aunt Mir. She had to admit that one reason she’d slept so well was the presence of Mordr in the house and the protection he offered. She felt safe.
The sun was creeping up over the horizon while she took a quick shower and brushed her teeth. Coffee, that’s what she needed now. She put on underwear and grabbed a robe, tiptoeing silently out of her room, not wanting to awaken the children so early.
She couldn’t resist, though. Peeking into each bedroom, she looked lovingly at the children, who were innocent angels when asleep. Maggie and Linda in the pink bedroom. Ben and Sam in bunk beds and Larry in a single bed in the largest bedroom of the house, which was decorated in blue and white stripes, a compromise to all their differing tastes.
The girls’ room was somewhat tidy, unlike the boys’ room, which looked as if a cyclone had blown through. Clothes on the floor. A half-eaten apple on a windowsill. Homework scattered about the three desks. Closet door open. A Thomas the Tank Engine track at the foot of Larry’s bed, some of the engines under the bed. An opened can of fish food for the ten-gallon aquarium that cast the only light in the still dim room. Even the goldfish appeared to be asleep, hiding behind a conch shell.
Miranda’s heart tightened with the love she felt for these five little people, each so different and yet linked with a bond of family. How could she ever have considered walking away from them when Bradley Allison told her of Cassie’s “bequest” two years ago?
She closed the door quietly, letting them sleep until their alarms went off at seven. The school bus didn’t arrive until eight. Much as she’d come to love the gremlins, she cherished this short, silent respite from the chaos to come.
The coffeepot was perking, and five paper bags were lined up on the counter.
What?
She peeked in one bag. Peanut butter and strawberry jelly sandwich, a squeeze yogurt, an apple, and a Capri Sun. Others differed with bologna and mustard, ham and cheese, boxed raisins, a banana, Cutie oranges. Twinkies.
Mordr must have done this.
But how did he know of the kids’ differing tastes?
She glanced out the window and saw that the muddy patch had dried nicely. The damage might be minimal. No need to call a landscaper to reseed the backyard.
Then she did a double take as Mordr walked into view, coming from the side of the house. He was out there in his bare feet, wearing nothing but low-riding, slim pants. Taking pictures of her house with a cell phone camera. All the suspicions she’d had about him initially, then put aside, came rushing back.
Walking outside, she confronted him. “What are you doing?”
“Taking pictures of your house,” he said calmly, ignoring or
not registering the coldness of her question. He continued clicking away, big as you please, and he was plenty big, walking about the house, taking more pictures of the building and the yards, back, sides, and front. Once she could have sworn he took a picture of her.
She followed after him, trying not to notice the breadth of his shoulders, the narrowness of his waist and hips, the tight butt, and long, long legs. And the scars! Oh my God! His body was covered with long-healed scars. How did he get so many wounds? She decided to save that question for later. Instead, she asked, “Why are you taking pictures of my house?”
He stopped walking and addressed her directly, “My brother Cnut is a security expert. The best! Homes, business, governments, everything. I would have him come here to assess your circumstances, but he’s in Russia at the moment. Next best thing is that I describe the situation and send him pictures.”
“Oh,” she said. “Is he your only brother?” Like that was important!
“Pfff! I have six brothers.”
“And sisters?”
He shook his head. “Six brothers are enough, believe you me.”
“I’m an only child,” she said, surprised that she’d revealed something about herself without being asked. Quickly, she backtracked, “I’m always fascinated by the dynamics of a big family.”
“I do not know this dynamics, but you certainly have your own big family now.”
“That I do.” They were headed toward the kitchen door.
“Don’t you think it’s inappropriate to walk about half naked?”
His eyes widened with surprise. “Half naked? I would have you know that I donned braies this morning in order to be ‘appropriate.’ ”
Did that mean that he slept naked? Of course it did. Yikes! “You have to be careful not to be naked around the children.”
He gave her a look of consternation, as if he would ever do such a thing. Then, “Is it acceptable to be naked around you?”
“Of course not.” Is he serious, or teasing me? His expression reveals nothing.
They were back in the kitchen, where he picked up a short-sleeved black shirt hanging on the back of a chair. Putting it on, he left it unbuttoned, leaving exposed a path of light brown hair on his chest that led down in a V toward, well, just downward. Happy trail, for sure. How could a man this virile be celibate?
Stop it, Miranda. No more ogling! No more speculation on his sex life. “What are brays anyhow?”
“Braies are breeches or long pants.”
She nodded. “I’m confused by your language,” she said. “One time you speak modern language, and the next you throw out ancient words, like braies.”
He shrugged. “At heart I am Viking, and Old Norse words seep into my speech, though I know better when I have a chance to think on it.”
That made as much sense as, well, a Viking in Las Vegas. “Thank you for making the children’s lunches. I haven’t been that efficient for a long time.”
He leaned back against the counter and arched a brow in question.
“Lack of efficiency is a natural result of being overworked, overstressed, trying to do too much, having no help for the past few weeks,” she said defensively. “I would be the first to say that I’m spread too thin.”
“That problem should be solved now that I am here.”
She hoped so.
“Why do you work so much?”
Silly question! “I have to support my large family.”
“Have you never wed?”
She shook her head.
“That is odd.”
“Why?”
“Most women your age have been wed for many years with five or more children of their own by now. ’Tis the husband’s job to support his family.”
“What century are you living in?”
“Let me say that a different way then. Why is a woman of your beauty not married?”
“Please! I know I’m not beautiful.” She tried to remember if she’d combed her hair yet.
“Well, not beautiful, but comely in a certain way.”
She laughed. “That is the lamest compliment I have ever heard.”
“I did not mean it as a compliment. Merely an observation.”
She rolled her eyes.
Though he didn’t smile, there was a certain dancing light in his blue eyes. Was he teasing her? Hard to tell with his somber demeanor, she thought once again.
“How did you know what to make for the kids’ lunches?”
“Hah! First, I had to call my sister-by-marriage Alex, and ask her what a bag lunch was.”
Apparently he wasn’t as well-qualified for the job as he might have led them to believe. That didn’t bother her too much. Not yet.
“Then I asked the children their preferences. While I conceded to their wishes on the bag lunches, I told them there would be only one item on the menu for breakfast. Cereal and milk. They all wanted different things, ranging from bacon and eggs to fruity charms, which I only learned later was cold cereal, and a dozen things in between. Imagine the little bratlings thinking some idiot would cater to all their individual tastes!”
Yeah, imagine that! “Thanks for starting the coffee. Do you want a cup?”
He shook his head. “I drink it on occasion, but I never developed a taste for the bitter brew.”
Once again she was struck by the inconsistency of his speech. Bratling. Bitter brew. While at the same time using words like conceded. “Is English a second language for you?”
“Hmpfh! More like eighth. I’ve always understood Saxon English. They are very similar, you know, but modern English is fairly new to me.”
“You speak eight languages?” Why that shocked her, she wasn’t sure. Was she guilty of racial bias? As in big Viking equates with dumb?
He counted on the fingers of both hands. “Actually, ten languages if you count Latin, which is a dead language. Even the priests no longer use it in their Masses.”
Miranda toasted and buttered an English muffin for herself to have with her coffee. Then, without asking, she toasted and buttered another one, placing it on the table, along with a glass of milk and a glass of orange juice, in front of him. Before she had the chance to set some jam on the table, he’d scarfed down both his and her muffins and all the milk. She made two more muffins and sat down with her coffee, spreading some of the strawberry jam on her muffins. He watched what she was doing, then did the same with his own. He nodded his satisfaction.
“Don’t you ever smile?”
“Rarely.”
“Why? Forget I asked that. It’s none of my business. What were you writing?” She pointed to the yellow legal pad with bold male writing on it. She had a pile of the pads in her office and that was one of her favorite gel pens he’d been using.
“Ideas for how to better secure your home and to protect you and the children when away from home.”
She waved a hand for him to explain while she chewed on her muffin, licking some jelly off the corners of her mouth.
He just stared at her mouth, and then he licked his own lips.
Holy cow! She felt that little gesture mirrored on her own lips, and whoo-boy, it felt good. “Uh, for example?” Focus, Miranda, focus. On the subject at hand, not the luscious male before you.
He seemed to make a concerted effort to concentrate, too. “It would be better if you had a real guard dog, one that would warn you of any stranger on the property.”
She shook her head. “There’s no way I could get rid of Ruff. The children would never forgive me. And there’s no way I could handle two dogs.”
He conceded that point with a nod. “Cnut will assess your home security and come up with some recommendations. In the meantime, my biggest concern is the school situation. Two separate schools. Minimal security. There are only a few weeks until the end of the school year. Why not school them at home with a tutor?”
She shook her head again. “I have to maintain the appearance of normality in the kids’ lives. They lost their
mother two years ago. Their father is absent, in prison. I moved them from their old neighborhood in Cincinnati to this new development in Las Vegas. So many changes!”
“Well, then, I will have to assign men to watch over them when they are in school.”
“You have men? How many? Surely, you don’t expect them to live here.”
He gave her a look that pretty much said, What do you think? Then he said, “The number does not matter. And they will make their own sleeping arrangements.”
“I don’t like the idea of the kids having guards outside the school.”
“The children will never know they are there.”
She tapped her fingertips on the table, considering. “All right,” she agreed.
“I also don’t like the idea of the children riding on the bus. A bus could be waylaid on the way from here to there, or the reverse. I will drive them to school and pick them up.”
She was about to protest, but nodded again. Small, but important, concessions.
“By the time you return from your work today, I will have a more detailed plan for you. We have not even talked of your own safety, but never fear, I will manage it all.” Did he really waggle his eyebrows at her before saying, “After all, I am your house manager.”
“Thank you,” she replied with a wobbly voice. The last time anyone offered to lift the load from her shoulders was . . . she didn’t remember when. Oh, Darla helped. And her coworkers. But still, the responsibility for the children’s welfare and safety was hers alone. Until now.
His concern touched her deeply. She sensed that he cared, that he would do this, even if he weren’t paid. It made him look even more attractive to her. His long hair was pulled back off his face and tied with a rubber band low on his nape, calling attention to his sharp cheekbones and other Nordic features. A dark blond shade of morning whiskers dusted his chin. And of course all those muscles.
He cleared his throat.
Embarrassed to be caught ogling him, she stood. “I need to get dressed for work before waking the kids.”
His attentive eyes surveyed her boldly, taking in her tall body from bed-head hair to slippered feet. She felt as if he could see through her thick terry-cloth robe, under which she wore only skimpy underwear.